


We're Alone Together

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, i think its sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: But maybe she loves a broken man and in a way, they still fit with these broken lines and sharp edges.





	We're Alone Together

**Author's Note:**

> aside from obsessing over jonsa, i am head over heels in love with braime!!! please tell me what you think !! (i dedicate this fic to hannah)

Brienne has gone used to silence. In her youth, it used to be all that surrounds her; consuming and taunting of her perpetual isolation from the world, from anyone else who would hear her voice and sit by her side. Years have slipped through her fingers and she has grown content in this thick bubble, tranquil and almost like protection from callous people, dishonourable ones with black hearts and taunts hanging from their teeth.

Only one managed to pierce through it, with mockery sharp as a knight’s blade and a twinkle in his eyes. Her husband; the very same person she’s waiting for late in this night. Sitting by the given space of a large bay window, her phone is in front of her, glowing numbers that made his promise of return some jest she only understood at that moment. The book she has been reading, a brief historic overview of Europe, is open on her lap, silvery luminance from the moon outside washing over the crisp papers.

The door opens as her beloved book is closed.

Brienne restrains the scowl to sour her mouth, an almost innate reaction upon seeing the other blonde. She remains by the window, hands curled on the history book, numbly observing Jaime bloody Lannister stagger into the living room of their two storey house. A Victorian house she didn’t _even_ want; a quaint home with three bedrooms, a vast backyard, and is convenient for their travel to their works. But no, having gold in him instead of veins and blood, he buys an extravagant mansion (“Your estate can swallow a house”, Podrick corrected her one time during brunch with her friends.)

Her attention is brought back to the present, where everything Is dark and obscure but she can trace the broad shoulders, could nearly spot how golden his locks are, and she could see his hand  reach out, grazing the furniture surface as to not make a sound.

_He thinks I’m sleeping._

But how can she sleep when the king size bed is vast, her long limbs swim in a sea of silk, and she is accustomed to clinging on Jaime as sleep overcomes her senses. In a way, he spoiled her too, a lighter sense than him, beliefs and actions screamed trust fund and his swagger and glinting Rolexes hinted on a much larger fortune of their family.

A click sounds like a bomb in this silence and their living room is bathed in lights, making the maple flooring gleam, the oak, wood and silver shine amongst the tables and chairs. He stands near the lamp and Brienne knows something has happened, a horrid event shaking him to the core. His face is gaunt in the hard line on his mouth. The circle sunder his eyes appear crueller than this morning in contrast of earlier in the day; crinkles beside his sky orbs as he kissed her speechless, taking the greeting by a swipe of his tongue.

Finally, she concedes to her bleeding heart and walks towards him, feet barely making a sound but she knows he can feel her presence anyways. The book is dropped on the cream lush sofa.  She stands in front of him, hands curled on the cotton shirt she wears to bed.

“Jaime…” At this proximity, she can smell the cigarettes and anxiety thrums heavily in her veins, sparking her nerves that her fingers flex and fidget.

Brienne stares at the man, worries filling to the brim and she tries hard to not let the waves’ crash too harshly in her chest. She likes to think she can help him, _mend_ and fit the broken pieces together and see the man she fell in love with. But maybe she loves a broken man and in a way, they still _fit_ with these broken lines and sharp edges.

Avoiding eye contact ensures a higher chance of lying, of avoiding, and a better feeling of spitting out a remark. He shifts his weight on his feet, his hand (and his stump) are deep in the slack’s pocket, and his jaw is tightly coiled like a compression. “The wrong thing here is that I made you stay up late. No need for pretences. I broke my promise. I’m so sorry.” He snaps, like a lion flexing its jaws to frighten off some fool of an animal that dares to think they can overpower such a predator. His shoulder roughly brushes against hers as he stomps his way to the bedroom.

 _Ah, they know each other too well._ People have whispered about them and in this circumstance, it’s coated in bitter realism it stings her skin.

When he slams the door close, Brienne blinked, surprised at feeling the cool tears dot her cheeks, racing down the slope of her face to later on join on the point of her chin, falling on the floor. _He’s had a bad day. He’s had a terrible day. That’s why he smoked and stayed up late. He-he’s shaken._

Gathering her courage, she walks into the bed room to find Jaime with his head on his hands and his elbows dig into the top of his knees. The moment she sinks at the edge of their bed, her hand hovering over his head, Jaime springs to stand before she can even comprehend.

“What-what happened after you met up with Cersei?” She demanded, stern and cool faced. Her spine almost cracks with tension, glowering fiercely at the man who doesn’t deign to respond her. Of course, lions view themselves with their golden man as crowns and every animal should bow to them.

“Not now.” Jaime whispers but somehow, its louder than a car accident.

“Please tell me, Jaime. You never smoke unless something utterly terrible has happened-“

“-For fuck’s sake, stop being such a nag. You’re not my _mum,_ Brienne. I should know; she fucking died years ago.” Her husband raised his voice. For a brief moment, there was panic and regret in his eyes but he swiftly covered it and spread his feet together as though they are about to physically spar.

Brienne’s ears rang, hearing that harsh tone vibrate in her mind and tears pool in her eyes; a turbulent lake with too many ripples to count. “Get out.” She whispers, soft and some would say that is the only thing soft about her. Everything else gives an impression of boiled leather, swords in mid battle and-and _would be knights._

“Bri-“

“I am merely acting on what you’ve crowned upon me. An honour I might say but I won’t. So please sleep somewhere else.” She suggests, not bothering to throw a look over her shoulder. She tucks herself underneath the said flowing silk sheets and her jaw clenches in retrained ire. When slams the door as a sign for his exit, she collapses on the bed, tears marking the expensive blankets and she hates this. She hates him. But more importantly, she hates that she can’t hate him.

If only the object of her affection were there in their apartment to hear the cries of a broken soul, then perhaps, the scars in him might’ve made him a humbler man.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Brienne woke up with a start. She raced to the bathroom. Flinging it open and kneels in front of the toilet. One of the many and on-going things she abhors about pregnancy is morning sickness. She wrenches into the bowl, groaning in agony and gripping the edges with a grip that could snap a man’s neck in two. She closed her eyes, her mind saturated with thoughts she can’t distinguished. Making a move to toss her hair back, though shoulder length, still hinders in emptying her stomach.

Another mysterious hand assists her as though it came out of thin air. Gently pulling away her short bright locks then it moves down to rub soothing abstracts into her back.

“You can do this, my love.” An adorned whisper travels into her clothed shoulder and a staccato kiss is felt there. “You’re strong. You nearly broke my back when we played rugby that one time.” He reminds her, the rhythm on her back doesn’t falter nor does the assurance washing over the tied up knots in her breathings.

 She leans back and she doesn’t dare blink when Jaime wipes the corner of her mouth in concentration. Staring at his face, he looks significantly worse as though he stupidly decided to sleep on the streets instead of the three thousand dollar sofa her father gifted them with as a wedding present.

“How about a bath, yeah? Rose petals or silly bubbles?” He whispers against her cheek as he kisses her there. The two is on the counter above them as they still on the floor, gazing at each other with great hesitance and the right words being pulled back into their throats due to pride.

Brienne feels like an utter mess. She’s confused, disoriented, and loves his hand when he massages her back. “Silly bubbles.” She shyly answers.

Him, being brought up with a silver spoon stuck in his mouth, it brings a surprise when he fills the tub and makes sure the temperature is sufficient to her like. He helps her undress and he can’t resist in pressing his lips firmly on the swell of her stomach, already adding to the long list of why she feels so inadequate when Jaime looks at her with love in his eyes.

When she submerges herself into the bath, she draws her knee sup, as far as they can as they touch where their baby is currently growing. Bubbles of translucent colour obscure her body and she’s thankful for it. 

He kneels beside her, his hand skimming on her bent knee, admiring how smooth it felt and how it glistened with the water. “What’s your craving on this stagnant morning? Mint pancakes or chocolate sandwiches?” He questioned.

“Chocolate pancakes.” She replies, coy as a maid and her mouth quirks in the slightest when he nods and makes a leave.

The bath is heavenly after her morning sickness. She scrubbed herself raw, inhaled the intoxicating rose scent the water radiated. A song dripped down her lips without her even noticing, its title forgotten but her mother used to sing it to her when she was scared of the dark. When she was done, she wore long pyjamas with a shirt that displayed their old high school basketball team; the catalyst of their puzzling and intricate relationship.

A smile is very much difficult to hide in seeing Jaime, with a maroon apron tied around his waist. He sits in front of the marble topped kitchen table, with stacks of sandwiches and spare pancakes of the ordinary kind. There was even the organic milkshake she has gotten to love, the recipes are courtesy of Sansa and Margaery who both have their own kids and were kind enough to give her silver linings in these times.

Brienne sits next to him, quietly eating when she heard him spin his stool so he was facing her.

“We should talk about last night, why I was an ass to my pregnant wife.” Jaime deadpans; the only way honesty is pulled out of him. It’s by her; the light she has can be seen in everything she does, in the ridiculously childish notion on how everyone is good and noble like her. Because it isn’t true, he is a living testament to that.

“Cersei kept ranting about how incompetent her multi-award winning therapist is. I had to profusely apologized to the head of the AA because of Tyrion’s frequent absence. Then, I-I drove by a toddler clothing store and thought of you.” He whispers, genuinely horrified and his voice cracked in almost space every of his words. He inclines his chin; his face was a battleground of grief and desperation. “I thought about how I’d be a father and-and it _fucking_ terrified me. My family is fucked up and in that logic, I’m fucked up. I’m so-so scared of fucking this up. You and this baby are the perfections that I don’t deserve and-and….”

Brienne knows he isn’t aware of his hand grips on her thigh, hard and punishing (not her, never her, only ever to and about him) that she knows bruises would surface not long after. She leans forward, kissing his forehead (and he responded with a breath as ragged as his heart is in his chest; its edges scratching his chest and it hurts to _breathe_ )

“You are _not_ your family. You have never been, my love, fierce idiot.” She mumbles into the high of his cheek and planting a kiss soft enough to melt rocks.  “You’ll be a wonderful father, Jaime. I know it. You’re a good person, underneath all these scorn, quips, and hatred, there’s a light that I can see.” She professes like a wedding vow.

“I’m only a decent man because of you.” He admits, low and only for her ears to hear.

She rolls her eyes at that. “Your family may not care about each other the way it should be but this will inspire you to love and care of our family. And this is why you _will_ be more than a decent father.”

 In a way, it reminded Brienne of the loneliness her young life consisted with; echoing into the abyss and no one bothered to care for her. But now, she’s alone with him. Against his family, the world even if she has retained her love of valour and heroes. Most importantly, they’ll go on in this twisted life together. Like an eccentric pair going off to a quest for peace in these troubled lands.

_It’s in the shine of their golden hair, the muscled bodies that makes people think they’re some highborn of a lost era. The noble blood has remained._

They quietly ate breakfast, fully aware (and excited) at the prospect of some noise their vats house will ring with when their child will be born.

 


End file.
